The Adventures of a Neurotic Courtesy Clerk
by Diluted Thoughts
Summary: It all started with one simple request: “Teru-kun, can you please work overtime?”


**Title:** The Adventures of a Neurotic Courtesy Clerk  
**Rating:** G / PG  
**Pairings/Characters:** Mikami Teru. Cameos made by Kiyomi, Matsuda, Namikawa, Naomi, Light, and Sayu.  
**Warnings:** Um. Slight AU? It's not one hundred percent factual? (Please see the Author's Note for more details.)  
**Word Count:** 3,202  
**Author's Note:** This is an idea that occurred to me suddenly, and is _loosely_ based on a real life experience. I did some research and got some advice on grocery stores in Japan, and although I couldn't find out anything about whether or not they employed courtesy clerks, or used grocery carts, or even used plastic or paper bags (they apparently prefer _furoshiki_: "an Origami-like means of carrying virtually anything with a simple square of thin cloth"), I took some liberties and added those aspects in for the sake of the cracky plot. So it is…probably not entirely factual.

* * *

It all started with one simple request: _"Teru-kun, can you please work overtime?"_

Of course it sounded simple enough, right? Wasn't that why Mikami Teru still had the sleeves of his impeccably white shirt neatly rolled up to his elbows, why he was still wearing his navy-blue apron and silver name tag that read **Mikami Teru—Courtesy Clerk**, and why he was _still_ bagging groceries for a young woman?

But that was just it: it _wasn't_ that simple.

Mikami had never been one to stray away from his daily routine. In fact, he had spent almost an entire weekend planning a perfectly organized, _inflexible_ schedule once he began attending a university. Its time constraints were only limited to exam study and papers, and that was because he could not anticipate when exams were going to be held, and when papers were to be assigned and due. To Mikami, his schedule was _law—_a law that would not be broken lest he wanted to face dire consequences. Organization was key: without it, everything he had worked for would crumble into a pathetic heap of decay, festering and rotting until eventually it consumed him from the inside out…

So then why, pray tell, was he placing a carton of milk in a plastic bag?

It was because his boss had offered to double his pay if he worked overtime. The man had been desperately short handed—one of his employees was on vacation, while two more had called in sick—so he had asked (well, more like _pleaded_, really) Mikami to work overtime. And although Mikami was well aware that he had an exam in two days that counted for approximately seventy-five percent of his grade, and that he would be _straying away from his schedule_,he had accepted—not because his boss had seemed distraught, or because it was the most civil thing to do (…so perhaps that was a _part_ of it…), but because Mikami could really use the money.

Mikami was juggling two immediate jobs to pay for university tuition—one at a coffee shop, and one at the local grocery store, where he was now. Both jobs, along with his scholarship and financial aid grant, had allowed him to just _barely_ make his way through a university education. Now at twenty-one-years-old, Mikami was soon going to attend a law school, and was trying to gather as much money as possible to pay for tuition and textbooks. Granted, he had applied for dozens of scholarships and for financial aid; if worse came to worse, he was even planning to get a loan. What money Mikami had left was used for the necessities—rent, food, clothes, subway fare, etc.—and left room for little else.

So to have his pay doubled would leave Mikami with a little extra that he could use on himself. Perhaps he could purchase a book, like _Also Sprach Zarathustra_ by Friedrich Nietzche—a book whose nihilistic theme had sometimes been critically referenced by his professors. His glasses frames had also become slightly bent over time, and Mikami had his eyes set on a pair of dark-horn rimmed frames. Still, the most pressing need for Mikami was his dire need of a haircut—or a trim, at least. Though he was rather fond of his long hair, Mikami did _not_ take being mistaken for a woman lightly (even if it _was_ occasional, and done by the elderly no less). He wanted his hair to be shoulder length at the very least, and maybe he could even get his bangs trimmed since they were getting a bit _too_ long and sticking to his forehead…

But that was not to say that Mikami did not feel thoroughly dreadful for straying away from his methodical routine. In reality, the only way he justified such deviance was by telling himself that he could study through the night with the help of some black coffee; with a bit of work, he would be able to resume his routine as if nothing had ever—

"Um, excuse me?"

Mikami glanced up, shaken out of his sudden reverie as quickly as he had lapsed into it. He blinked at the short-haired woman to his left and brought his eyebrows together, as if to say: _…Yes?_

Much to his surprise and bewilderment, her face prickled with a sudden pink blush; she glanced away briefly before turning back and pushing a lock of dark hair away from her eyes. Mikami felt an inexplicable pang of sympathy as he realized that the woman's bangs were probably bother her as much as his bangs were bothering him; this only reinforced his idea of getting a haircut.

"Can you double-bag the cantaloupe, please? I don't want to risk it falling out."

Mikami nodded and swiftly placed the bagged cantaloupe in another plastic bag, and then proceeded to set it back into the shopping cart. He glanced up a second time, and although he saw that a line was steadily forming for check-out, decided to ask for the sake of courtesy, "Would you like help out?"

The woman shook her head and smiled. "No, I can see you have your hands full," she replied softly. "But thank you…"—she squinted and read the kanji on his nametag—"…Mikami-san."

Mikami, who had rarely ever been addressed so respectfully—and by a customer, at that—could only offer a slow nod in response. She flashed him another smile, even more brighter than before, and swept past him towards the door. When he caught a glimpse of her reaching up to brush the same lock of hair away from her forehead, Mikami firmly decided that he was going to get a trim as soon as physically possible.

* * *

Mikami had just returned inside the store with a line of shopping carts that he had gathered when he heard a voice say: "Hey, uh, can I ask you a quick question?"

He inclined his head slightly, straightened his glasses, and fought the urge to say, _"You already have, but would you like to ask another one?"_

"Yes?" Mikami prompted as began taking the latex gloves off his hands. The black-haired man made an _uhhhh_ sound of evident uncertainty, apparently puzzled as to why Mikami was wearing gloves in the first place. He could have said that he took extra precaution when touching the handlebars of grocery carts for fear of contamination. He also could have said that he had seen people cough without covering their mouths and sneeze without covering their noses. He could _even_ have said that he had once seen a child lick the palm of its hand and then rub the saliva all over the handlebars.

He _could_ have.

But he didn't.

So with a slight edge to his voice as he cleaned his hands with a sanitary wipe for good measure, Mikami asked, "What is your question?"

"Oh, right," he mumbled. "You guys have coffee, right?"

Mikami arched a slender eyebrow and stared at the man before him blankly. If it was not so terribly out of character for someone like Mikami, he would certainly have inserted an _uhhhh_.

"This is a grocery store," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "Of course we have coffee."

The man laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. Mikami could not help think that with his dark hair, this man looked like one of those obscenely shaggy dogs—the ones that most women found adorable but looked filthy even if they had been washed. "Yeah, stupid question, huh?"—wasn't that the understatement of the year?—"Sorry, I'm just sorta out of it since I haven't gotten enough sleep for the past few days. You see, my boss…"

Mikami felt his jaw tighten in frustration. He did not want an account of this man's personal life: he wanted him to _get to the point_.

"Forgive me," Mikami interrupted as amiably as he could, though he still could not get the edge out of his voice, "but I really need to get back to work. Is there something specific that I can assist you with?"

The man mumbled another apology and then said, "What sort of coffee do you guys have?"

Mikami felt his patience thinning. "We have the basics, such as canned milk coffee, black coffee, ice coffee…" He pointed over the man's shoulder towards the fifth aisle. "The coffee can be found down that aisle, to your left. There are a few variations, also."

"How long does it take to prepare?"

"_Prepare_?" he echoed uncertainly.

"Well, yeah," the man said, looking perplexed. "You guys make it here, don't you?"

Mikami felt the sudden and inexplicable urge to bang his head against the nearest wall—but of course, he knew better. "I am afraid you misunderstood," he began through gritted teeth. "This is a _grocery_ store. We carry coffee, but we do not prepare it." To avoid further confusion, he added quickly, "You may want to try the coffee shop that is two blocks away."

"So this…? So you mean…? Oh, wow. I'm so sorry!"—Mikami found the fact that this man had apologized three times in the time-span of roughly four minutes slightly amusing—"I thought you guys brewed coffee here, too."

"No, we do not," Mikami stated curtly.

"All right. Sorry for wasting your time!" _Just how many times is this man going to apologize? _"Thanks for all your help, by the way."

"You're welcome." The reply was short and swift, and Mikami hoped that it did not sound as relieved as he thought it did. Whether this man noticed, he did not say; he sulked his way out the door—incidentally, this only served to strengthen Mikami's previous comparison of him to a dog, and he wryly wondered if this man was capable of making his ears droop—and narrowly avoided collision with an elderly woman and small boy in the process. Mikami muttered a "Good riddance," under his breath.

But as luck would have it, this did not go unnoticed, and when the old woman peered up at Mikami with an expression that accused him of having schizophrenia, it took all of his composure just to keep from twitching.

* * *

  
"You, there."

Had the voice not been right behind him, Mikami would certainly have taken the liberty of ignoring it. It was not so much that he was being interrupted (though he _was_ trying to mop up a bit of juice that the small boy from before had accidentally spilled) as to _how_ he was being interrupted; the voice behind him was excessively condescending, and if it was one thing that Mikami absolutely _loathed_, it was someone who thought that they were better than others.

"May I help you with something?" Mikami inquired dismissively, purposely neglecting a glance up. Though he was well aware of the impatient clicking of a heal against the tile floor, he sidestepped and placed the mop back into the sudsy bucket.

"You have cat food here."

It was not a question looking for confirmation; it was a statement.

"Yes, we do," was the only relatively fitting response Mikami could think of. He finally looked up and straightened so he stood face-to-face with a customer who was obviously some sort of businessman—a businessman who seemed to think a great deal of himself, given his expensive-looking suit, overbearing cologne, and ridiculously perfect hair. Mikami had looked at this man less for five seconds, but he could tell by the way this man had his jaw set that he was either in some sort of hurry, or was just generally an impatient man.

He went with the latter.

"Have you stopped carrying the _Inaba_ brand?" came the pointed inquiry.

Mikami hesitated for a moment as he thought. He vaguely remembered his boss mentioning that one of the store's pet food deliveries had been wrong, and that they were expecting a new one the following week. Mikami attempted to explain this to the customer as civilly as possible, though the endeavor was strained due to the man's total lack of empathy.

"Then what do you expect me to feed my cat?" he demanded shrilly, once Mikami had finished.

"Perhaps you could try another brand for the time being," Mikami suggested coolly.

"I will have you know that my cat is _very _sensitive to what she is given to eat," he stated prosaically, as if it was a crime that Mikami did _not_ know every aspect about his beloved cat's dietary needs, "I refuse to give her any of this other…"—he wrinkled his nose, apparently trying to emphasize his point—"…slop."

"Then I am afraid that I cannot help you," Mikami said shortly. "If you like, I could direct you to my boss—"

"That won't be needed," he snapped, indignantly flipping a long strand of hair over his shoulder— an action Mikami found slightly compulsive. "I will just go to a different grocery store. In fact, this is the last time that you will _ever_ see Namikawa Reiji at this hellhole you call a grocery store." And as the threat came to an end, he turned sharply on his heel and proceeded out the door.

Mikami, however, felt that the threat was rather futile—especially when he realized that Namikawa Reiji had accidentally dropped his driver's license on the tile floor.

* * *

"Here are the tomatoes you wanted."

Mikami had since finished mopping up the rest of the spilled juice and was now in the produce section, offering a leather jacket-clad, raven-haired woman the bag of tomatoes that she had requested. Much to his initial bewilderment but eventual acceptance, Mikami was feeling considerably less edgy. He related it to one of three things: first, this woman's refreshingly courteous attitude; two, the fact that his overtime shift would be over in another forty-five minutes; or three, a flustered Namikawa Reiji had just left the store with his driver's license, obviously trying to reinforce his threat from before but failing miserably all the same.

"Thank you so much," she replied gently. A barely visible wrinkle creased her bang-masked forehead, and she went on to say, "Oh, but I asked for three tomatoes—why did you get me four?"

"The freshest ones we had were slightly smaller than all the others, so I decided to get you four," he replied evenly. "I have already measured them on a scale, and they are the same price as three larger ones."

So he _had _stretched the truth just a bit—Mikami avoided use of the word "lying," because he thought it was an ugly term—but he had done it for good reason. Odd numbers, he felt, were unlucky, and he would not be able to live with himself if he brought misfortune upon such a decent woman. So even though there had been fresh tomatoes that were rounder and larger, he had decided to get four smaller ones instead; but Mikami really _had_ measured them to make sure the price was the same.

"That was very thoughtful of you," she remarked with a smile. When she held out her hand, it took Mikami an uncommonly long moment to realize that she wanted to shake his hand. He forced what he hoped was a convincing smile onto his face and grasped her hand, shaking it lightly; a small voice in the back of his head asked if this woman's pale hands were really as immaculate as they looked.

Once their hands had disengaged, she murmured another few words of gratitude and bowed before making her way to the cash register. And as Mikami followed her suit so that he could bag her groceries, he could not for the life of him understand why his cheeks felt so warm.

* * *

Mikami glanced down at the watch on his left wrist; it was ten minutes to eight o'clock, meaning that his shift was nearly over. He had just finished bagging for a young couple, and there were only two more people in line; one was a teenage boy that looked to be a few years younger than Mikami himself, and a girl who was apparently his little sister.

A girl who had been fixatedly staring at Mikami for the past few minutes.

He had tried not to let it bother him—she was just a young girl, perhaps fourteen- or fifteen-years old—but it had become increasingly more daunting each time he happened to glance up and see a pair of brown eyes staring back at him. Her brother seemed absolutely oblivious to it all, apparently too enthralled with some sort of magazine to realize that his sister was eyeing Mikami like a cat eyed a mouse before it pounced.

Finally, as they stepped up to pay, her brother frowned and chided with: "Sayu, stop staring at him. You're making a fool of yourself."

"Oh, c'mon, onii-chan," the girl now identified as Sayu started to say in a _why-do-you-have-to-always-spoil-the-fun_? sort of tone, "Just because _you're_ too much of a nerd to check girls out doesn't mean _I_ have to pass up the chance to see hot guys."

Mikami pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, a reflexive action when he became uneasy. "Would you like paper or plastic?" he asked reluctantly.

Sayu seemed intent on answering, but her older brother beat her to it, smoothly stating: "Plastic, thanks," with a disarming smile. It was a smile that Mikami speculated this formally-dressed student had used often due to how convincing and genuine it looked.

Mikami thought he heard a noticeably disapproving, _"Onii-chan!" _from Sayu, but thought little of it as he began packing the groceries. He set a plastic bag onto the counter and flattened out the bottom so that the bag sat horizontally; it was a bagging technique that Mikami had invented on his own, one that allowed him to pack groceries more quickly and efficiently so as to not waste bags needlessly.

It took Mikami a total of about two minutes to pack all the various items in an impressive total of just four bags. He placed the bags into the cart just as his boss wished the pair a good night and shut the cash register with a click. Mikami maneuvered the grocery cart out of the brother-and-sister's way and asked, again for the sake of courtesy, "Would you like help out?"

"Su—"

"I can take it from here," the auburn-haired teen briskly interjected, frowning at his sister for a second time, "but thanks anyway."

Mikami nodded and muttered, "Have a nice evening," with a tight-lipped smile, prompting a good-natured smile from the brother, while his sister turned a bright shade of red. He turned so that they would not see him grimace, though he got the subtle feeling that the teen realized his discomfort because he cleared his throat, sounding almost amused.

And try as he might to block out the pair's conversation as they made their way out the door, Mikami could not help but hear a snippet—but a snippet was all that needed to be heard:

"Onii-chan, I know I said that he was hot, but…"

"…but…?"

"Well, don't you think that guy is too pretty _not_ to be a girl?"


End file.
